


A Fire Shall Be Woken

by Serenade



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Falling In Love, Healing, Hiding an injury, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-02-28 12:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18756433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/pseuds/Serenade
Summary: Boromir has a duty to continue the line of the Stewards. But everything changes with the return of the King. (Or does it?)





	A Fire Shall Be Woken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



His father knew of his inclination. They never spoke of it openly. All his father ever said was, "You must take a bride and sire an heir, to continue our line." And he had answered, "I know. I will not fail you. I will fulfil my duty."

But still the years fell like leaves, and still Boromir of Gondor did not wed.

Few there were whom he could take into his confidence. The men under his command would never betray his trust, but the bond between captain and soldier could not be the same as the bond between equal companions.

Rare were those occasions when he found that companionship. They became rarer still, as his rank rose higher and his burdens grew heavier and the Shadow in the East loomed near. He made himself into a sword for Gondor, and he gave all his love to Gondor. He could almost forget the hollow space in his heart, hollow as the withered husk of the White Tree.

When the dream came to him in the night, he knew he had to take that chance. _Imladris._ Travelling a hundred days through the wilderness, on his own, seeking a legend older than Gondor herself. He knew this quest was his destiny. He sought Isildur's Bane. He found Isildur's Heir.

"I have been to Gondor before, in brighter days," Aragorn said. "Your forebears knew me as Thorongil, and I fought beside them. Valiant men they were, bold and courageous."

He spoke so easily of such things, as though he were ageless like the Elves. But no Elf was he, with the burning drive and restless energy of mortal Men. This Ranger of the North, lean and rugged and a little wild. Despite his troubling claim to the throne, Boromir was compelled to seek him out. And nearly always Boromir found him, as though Aragorn were watching for him too.

They stood on one of the garden terraces, looking out at a waterfall pouring through cloven rock. Starlight danced through the spray.

"I know of you, Boromir son of Denethor," Aragorn said, in a low voice. "I know of your great renown. Tall and proud and beloved by many. But somehow, it seems to me, tall and proud and alone."

Although the world was deep into autumn, here in the valley of Imladris, the flowers of summer still bloomed, their scent perfuming the air. In this land outside time, with a man outside time, all things seemed possible. Could it be that the flame in his own heart was reflected in the eyes of this stranger?

"There are many things you do not know about me," Boromir said. Unsure whether he was spurred on by reckless challenge or deep yearning, he leaned in close. Aragorn moved forward in answer. Boromir kissed him, swift and light.

He drew back, feeling like he had just thrown himself over a cliff, hoping to fly. "Well? What say you of my great renown now?"

Aragorn seemed to be fighting a smile. "I say you are a man of many surprises."

His heart pounding, Boromir said, "If you will be with me, I will gladly offer up them to you."

Aragorn stilled. "Do you know what you are asking?"

Boromir flushed, but he did not lower his gaze. "I think we both know what I am asking."

Aragorn said, with a catch in his throat, "Then let us go within. There is a fire in my chambers."

#

The Company of the Ring set forth on their quest on the brink of winter. Boromir and Aragorn shared a blanket on the cold slopes of Caradhras, taking comfort against the chilling wind, but otherwise they had no privacy for anything more than shared glances. Then Gandalf fell into the abyss of Moria, his loss a brutal ache, and even the shared glances were no more.

Boromir began to fear he had dallied too long on the road. His worst nightmare was that Gondor had already fallen. He dreaded returning to find only ashes and dust: its walls and towers broken, its people scattered and slain. Some days he felt sick to the stomach, barely able to eat.

He must not fail. His father trusted him. His people trusted him. And so he came to betray the trust of his companions.

"I am sorry," Boromir said, trying to breathe through the pain. With slow anguished words, he confessed how he had tried to seize the Ring from Frodo.

Aragorn knelt over his wounded body, looking stricken. Boromir did not deserve his pity. In his folly he had grasped at the chance to wield the Ring: an artefact of power that could turn the tide of the war. Now he knew it was only pride and arrogance.

"Promise me," he said. "Go to Minas Tirith and save my people!"

"We will go there together," Aragorn said.

Legolas and Gimli appeared behind him, their faces grave. Aragorn turned to speak with them in urgent discussion. Boromir caught fragments, about following the trail of the halflings that the Orcs had captured. He knew they had to make haste. His injuries would only slow them down.

"Leave me!" he tried to say. Then he faded into darkness.

He dreamed of someone kneeling by his side, soothing his wounds with a warm touch, whispering softly in an ancient tongue. He dreamed of a seed buried deep inside him, wakening to life. He dreamed he was a White Tree, with leaves of green and silver, and white flowers falling all around him.

When Boromir woke, he was lying in a boat, gently rocking, and Aragorn was watching over him. He tried to sit up. "The halflings--"

"Rest easy, all is well," Aragorn said. "Legolas and Gimli have found them. A raven came with the news. They are safe with the Ents of Fangorn."

The words made little sense. "Where are we?"

"We are going to Minas Tirith. The Anduin is taking us there."

Boromir stared in wonder. It was like a dream: the elven-boat flowing over the foam of the falls, suspended in a sky full of stars, like the ships of the Faithful riding ahead of the Great Wave.

#

Minas Tirith still stood. His father welcomed his return, but his rejoicing was stained with disappointment. His voice carried throughout the great hall. "You had in your hands Isildur's Bane, and you let it slip through your fingers? Why would you bring me this upstart instead?"

Boromir tried not to flinch at those words. He had once thought the same careless way. Theirs was the rule of Gondor, his father said, until the king should come again. But it was a rote phrase, like a proverb: "until the king should come again" meant "until the end of the world". The king was not a man. The king was a legend. A golden myth from a golden age: frozen into statues, faded into murals. For someone of flesh and blood to make that claim was almost blasphemy.

"I owe him my life," Boromir said. "He is indeed the Heir of Isildur returned, bearing the Sword of Elendil reforged."

"I am here to aid Gondor against the forces of Mordor," Aragorn said. "We should be united against the Enemy. Not quarrelling amongst ourselves."

"Fine words! But your mere presence is enough for wild rumour, as you well know. You will not sway me with your silver tongue, and your promises and prophecies. Not while I live will I step down from my sworn duty, let alone yield my rule to a houseless vagabond."

"Do not insult him, father!" The court murmured in shock. Boromir dropped to one knee, seeking forgiveness for his outburst. The sudden movement made his head swim. He had been oddly exhausted for days. He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus. "My lord. I am always your loyal son. If I have erred in judgment, the fault is mine alone. But this man Aragorn is brave and honourable, and will fight fiercely against the Enemy."

Denethor laid a hand on his shoulder, bidding him rise. Close to his ear, his father said, "You are an honest man, my son, and cannot see that there are many kinds of enemy."

#

The assassin was waiting behind the door.

Warrior though he was, Boromir did not expect treachery in his own halls, here in the heart of the Citadel. But then again, these were not his chambers. These were guest chambers, and the guest was Aragorn.

The assassin must have had the dagger already in hand. Boromir felt it slice across his ribcage as soon as he stepped over the threshold, so swift and sudden there was almost no pain. He struck his attacker on the wrist, forcing him to drop the dagger. He leapt to pin the man against the wall, but the man twisted away and Boromir was left with a handful of air. The assassin fled down the hall. Boromir meant to give chase, but the pain finally hit his awareness, and he bent double, breathing in short gasps.

He stumbled to the bed, still clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. The cut was shallow but messy. He had a vague notion of using the coverlet to stanch the wound. He felt lightheaded and shocky. The sour iron tang in the air made his gorge rise. He was no green youth, to faint at the sight of blood. What was wrong with him?

A footstep at the door. Then silence. Was it the assassin, returning to finish his work? Boromir fumbled for the sword at his belt, but his hands were slick with blood, and it slipped through his grasp, clattering to the floor.

The footsteps flew towards him. "Boromir? What are you doing here?" And suddenly Aragorn was there, holding him up, eyes scanning over him. "You're hurt!" He turned his head to the door, and Boromir seized his arm.

"No," Boromir said. "Do not raise the alarm! He is long gone by now. We will not catch him that way."

Aragorn furrowed his brow. "You need a healer." He lowered Boromir carefully to the bed.

Boromir shook his head. "Tell no one! It is but a scratch. I just--need to lie down--for a moment."

His eyelids fluttered shut. Between one blink and the next, the fall of moonlight through the window changed. Boromir tried to prop himself up on one elbow, still groggy, and winced as muscles protested.

"Rest easy," Aragorn said, kneeling beside the bed. "You'll open the wound again."

He dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water, and sponged it over the skin. Boromir breathed in sharply from the sting. He inhaled the scent of athelas, sweet and fresh. His shirt had been unlaced, for better access to the wound. It had been one of his favourite doublets, finely embroidered, but comfortable enough to ride or fight in. No amount of stitching could restore the jagged rent made by the dagger.

Aragorn cleaned the wound with great care. His gentleness was no surprise; Boromir had watched him tend to Frodo and Sam after Moria. But it was different being the one tended. Boromir could not suppress a shiver at the brush of those skilled fingers over his skin.

It was said in the old lore, _The hands of the king are the hands of a healer._

"This attack was not aimed at me," Boromir said. The assassin had been waiting for Aragorn. No one had known Boromir would visit his chambers. Not even Boromir himself, until the impulse had taken him. Perhaps it was a good thing that he had sprung the trap.

Aragorn nodded acknowledgment, carefully placing a bandage over the wound. "Who is my enemy here?"

Boromir wished he could say the assassin must be a servant of Sauron. But there were too many other possibilities. "I don't know. I have been absent too long. But I promise you, I will find out. I am ashamed that a guest would come to harm under our roof."

Aragorn shook his head. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You took a wound meant for me. It is I who owe you an apology, for failing to protect you as I should have."

It should have rankled, the implication that a capable warrior like himself should need protection. But he knew it was the protection owed by a liege lord to his vassal, and the thought warmed him.

"Why did you not wish me to tell anyone about this?" Aragorn said. "Surely your father should know that his son has suffered hurt."

Boromir hesitated, torn between two loyalties. He was afraid of what he might discover if he started asking questions. Denethor would never betray his oath. But there were those who might act rashly, thinking they served his will.

"I have no right to ask this of you," Boromir said. "But give me the chance to find out who sent the assassin. I want to preserve our honour, if I can."

From the look in his eyes, Aragorn understood his meaning and his dilemma. "Very well. But have a care. You may not have been the target, but this assassin may decide to remove any witnesses."

He hesitated. "There is something else I want to ask you." He looked apprehensive. Even afraid. But that was impossible. "May I examine you further?"

Was this the world's most awkward come hither? Boromir tried not to laugh. It would probably reopen the wound. "I would like nothing better, but I fear I am in no condition for much exertion."

A fleeting smile passed over Aragorn's lips. "No, not that. Not exactly."

Aragorn put a hand to his forehead, and felt the pulse in his wrist, and finally traced fingers over his torso. Boromir held his breath, trying not to sigh aloud at that tantalising touch.

Aragorn looked shaken.

"What is it?" Boromir asked. "Tell me the truth. Am I dying?" He meant it as a joke, to ease the tension, but a raw note escaped into his voice. Something was wrong. It had been wrong for a while. He had known he should not have survived the arrows of the Orcs--

Aragorn shook his head slowly. "No. I think…" He put his hand on Boromir's stomach. "…I think there is new life inside you."

Boromir went blank with incomprehension. Surely he could not mean what it sounded like he meant. The silence stretched for many long moments, until Boromir wondered if he had simply hallucinated those words, like some fever dream.

"This is my fault," Aragorn said, with quiet despair. "All through my life, I have had unknown gifts manifest. Especially in times of peril. I should have given you warning, but I never expected this."

Of course. It made sense. It ensured the line of kings continued unbroken. But Boromir and his stubborn desire had interfered with destiny.

"I did not mean to ask you in such circumstances," Aragorn said. His eyes were dark with emotion. He got down on one knee. "Boromir, son of Denethor, will you marry me?"

Boromir stared at him in shock. Aragorn looked back at him in trepidation. Then Boromir found his senses and his tongue. "Yes. Of course I will marry you."

His heart hammered in wild disbelief, but he understood. The child he bore must be made legitimate, to safeguard its claim to the throne. Aragorn knew his duty, regardless of what his true wishes were, or who he hoped would become his queen. Boromir knew his duty too. This would not be the first time he protected Gondor by laying himself on the line.

#

Boromir dined at noon with his father in the great hall.

He had risen at dawn, returning to his own chambers to wash and dress. He moved stiffly and carefully, to avoid the bandage pulling on the wound. Aragorn had wanted him to rest in bed, but he could not let his condition be known, and besides, there was too much to be done, with the armies of Sauron on the horizon. Sharing a meal with his father was as much strategy meeting as family bonding.

His mind still whirled from the revelations of last night. Now he was responsible for bearing the heir to a reunited Gondor and Arnor. To be guardian of this new life. Suddenly, nothing else--no captaincy, no command, no quest through the wilderness--seemed as heavy a burden to fulfil. He had a renewed respect for all the mothers and grandmothers before him.

"This Aragorn," Denethor said, at last. "I have heard report you spent the night in his chambers."

Boromir flushed. "There were matters I wished to discuss."

"All night?"

"It was a long conversation."

His father tightened his jaw. "My son, I trust you to carry out your duty to your people. Not to be swayed by the--persuasions--of charismatic strangers."

"I know my duty, my father."

It was ironic. His father had long wished for Boromir to produce an heir, and now his wish would be granted.

#

The forces of Mordor marched. Gondor had called on Rohan for aid, and Rohan was sure to answer. But Boromir feared their numbers would not be enough.

"There is something only I can do," Aragorn said. "I must walk the Paths of the Dead."

Boromir did not doubt Aragorn had power over life and death. He could restore life to those on the edge of death. He could make a child with another man. Perhaps he could summon ghosts from the grave. But it was a perilous road to walk. "You have nothing to prove to me. You have nothing to prove to my father."

"I promised I would protect Minas Tirith."

"We could use you here. Your sword. Your leadership."

"Even the best swordsman in the world is but one man. I will bring you an army."

Boromir began to understand their two destinies. The Sword of Elendil, to walk in the dark places of the world to fight against evil. The Tower of Gondor, to stand steadfast as a beacon of light to protect the innocent.

They parted at the outermost of the seven gates. Aragorn murmured, "Forgive me, Boromir. It is a bitter deed I do, to leave you at this time."

Boromir summoned up his courage and a smile. "Go! I will be waiting for you."

#

They held Osgiliath as long as they could, but they had to fall back at last. There was no point in throwing away lives. Boromir waited until the last of his men were safely across the river, then he followed them.

He had escaped the battle with minor injuries. But the wound across his ribs still ached, and his skin burned far too hot, and the jolting gallop of his horse had him swallowing back nausea. He gritted his teeth and rode on, a grey haze descending over his vision.

He had no memory of falling.

He opened his eyes to the ceiling of his own chambers. He was covered in a thin robe, and cooling cloths lay on his body. A woman bustled over to him, and he recognised Ioreth, a Healer of the Houses of Healing. "There now, my lord, just rest."

"What happened?"

"There are fears you have been struck down by some Morgul-spell. That some cursed affliction is upon you." She bit her lip. "But that is not what I would say."

He knew she knew. "Where is my father?"

"He is in council in the great hall--"

Boromir staggered to his feet, still feverish and dizzy, making his way to the doors. Ioreth trailed behind him, protesting.

Denethor was with the lords and captains of Gondor, his face haggard, his shoulders sunk. "It is too late! Our walls will not save us. Our doom comes. We are cursed."

Boromir stepped into the great hall. Everyone turned to stare at him. He could not allow panicked rumours to spread. Even if his father accused him of shaming his house, by yielding himself to a pretender king and being his concubine. He took a deep breath.

"I am under no curse," Boromir said. "I am carrying the heir to Gondor."

Stunned silence filled the hall.

"Impossible," Denethor said, growing pale.

"Nay, my lord," Ioreth said. "I have felt the life quickening inside him." She made the sign of blessing. "Why, it's like the stories of old Númenor and their royal births. Kings with their sworn warriors. Queens with their shield maidens. I thought they were only legends."

Denethor said, in a hoarse voice, "There are ancient records in the archives that attest to these lost tales." He looked at Boromir like he was witnessing a miracle. "It was said to be a gift of the royalty of old. Kings who wielded the powers of healing, regeneration and renewal."

"He is the true king returned," Boromir said. "You will doubt him no longer, nor rouse anyone against him."

Some of the guards stirred uneasily, guilt and remorse flashing over their faces. He would bet these were the men to question about the assassination attempt. As he suspected, they looked young and full of bravado and desperately loyal to their lord. He thought he could convince them they were all on the same side now.

#

Boromir chose to fight in the battle of the Pelennor Fields, despite his condition. If the city fell, there would be no safety anywhere. He would rather meet his fate with a sword in his hand.

When the black sails of the corsairs appeared, Boromir had a moment of despair. But then a great banner unfurled, and it was the banner of the King. Aragorn was returned with a fleet of ships and an army of allies, and the forces of Mordor were scattered.

Boromir told him, "It was once my duty to beget an heir, to carry on the line of Stewards. But there is no need for the Stewards anymore, now that you have restored the line of Kings."

Aragorn smiled. "I would always want the line of Stewards to continue. The King cannot rule well over his people, without his Steward by his side."

Even though the words sent a wave of warmth through him, Boromir felt compelled to say what had been unsaid. "But for this accident of fate, you would have had a queen to rule beside you, wise and kind and beautiful. I am sorry I am not what you would have wished. But I will do my best."

Aragorn looked at him in dawning surprise. "What are you saying? Of course I wished for it to be you. I would never take to bed one whom I did not mean to join with forever."

Boromir stared at him in astonishment. "But surely--have you never--"

Aragorn shook his head. "I have been devoted to one purpose for many years. But I always thought I would know, when I met the right person. And so I did."

Joy in his heart, Boromir drew him close and kissed him.

Boromir had always longed to prove himself worthy and make his father proud. But he was beginning to understand, there were challenges beyond the challenges he had known. It was like climbing a mountain he had dreamed of, only to stand at its summit and see a whole mountain range stretching away beyond.

He no longer felt daunted, but exhilarated. This was a new destiny. Not just holding the line against the fall of darkness, but rebuilding a kingdom into a realm of peace. He took Aragorn's hand, twining their fingers together. It was a promise for the future. The future they would share.


End file.
